The police had come yet again for more of his father’s files. He couldn’t imagine what was left, but they always seemed to find new documents and give him filthy looks with superior smiles, clearly enjoying his utter mortification.

Everybody loved to watch him fall.

A crystal wineglass smashed against the wall as if by magic. His movements were automatic, like violence preprogrammed. He wondered if this rage had always been in him, just waiting for its moment to emerge, fully grown.

He was still for a moment—debating what to pick up and hurl next—and he heard voices in the hall. He went to stand by the door.

“Mr. Gardner.”

Oh, shit. Perfect.

He was too tired for this.

“Mrs. Beaumont. Hi.”

Their house—this beautiful place of antiques and rich fabrics and chilly distance—had been ransacked, both by the police and by Theo’s anger. Theo knew that even the front hall looked ramshackle, undignified, and he imagined Gardner’s face as he observed his family’s...decay.

“How can we help you?” His mother’s voice was still so cultured and precise. He wondered how she got up the nerve.

“I—I’m just here to check on—”

“Ah.”

A silence so awkward that he could feel it from the other side of the door.

“He’s in the study.”

He heard a rustle of—most likely—scruffy sneakers.

“Mr. Gardner.”

“Yeah?”

“You will not hurt him again.”

Theo ran his tongue along the inside of his lip. The scar from where Gardner had hit him was still there, silvery, with a roughness in his mouth. His mother had hated to see his perfect face marred. He looked so much like her. When she had seen the scar, she’d seemed more disappointed in him than angry at Gardner, but now—

“I won’t.”

“Fine.” Another rustle. “Do not make me regret giving you what little hospitality we have left to offer.”

Theo snorted—his mother still pretending as if—as if there were anything good, here. He moved away from the door, picked up another wineglass, and aimed at the wall next to the door.

He let go when the door opened, glass shattering around Gardner.

“What the—” Gardner ducked, crystal splinters raining down around him. “Beau—”

“Gardner.” He smiled his nastiest smile. “Nice to see you.”

“Um.” He looked at a loss for words, which wasn’t entirely new for him. “Right.”

Theo flushed. Gardner’s eyes were blue, so blue, and he remembered looking into them too many times—to fight, to denigrate, to despise—after lacrosse practice, at prom, at Pride when he was so stupid, so fucking—

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to—I heard more about—”

“Ah.” He picked up a paperweight, tossed it up and down in his left hand. “Come to gloat.”

“No, I—” Gardner didn’t seem capable of speech.